


Reporting for Duty

by luvanderwon



Category: Havemercy Series - Jaida Jones & Danielle Bennett
Genre: #festivebastion, F/M, Gen, Gift Exchange, Laure is a bamf, Troius is a douchebag, everyone else is a bit precious
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-08
Updated: 2014-12-08
Packaged: 2018-02-28 13:46:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,213
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2734808
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/luvanderwon/pseuds/luvanderwon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Laure salutes a lot, Adamo is really not her commanding officer, the dragons are difficult and literally nobody likes Troius. Post-Steelhands.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Reporting for Duty

**Author's Note:**

> For the #festivebastion gift exchange on tumblr, this is for [foxesonstilts](http://foxesonstilts.tumblr.com), who wanted slow burn bantering Adamo/Laure. Happy holidays!
> 
> Contains NAUGHTY SWEARWORDS so apparently that's not a general viewing thing? how do u ratings

What it all boiled down to, was I was a girl who’d been brought up to do a boy’s work, and now I was doing a thing which had only been done by men before. And while that was fine by me – I’d dreamed of it (or something like it) forever anyhow – the thing was, nobody else seemed to know how to handle me. 

Not that I needed _handlin’_ , as such – but I was the first girl in their boy’s club who _wasn’t_ a whore or a dragon, and that knocked most of ‘em sideways once they’d bothered to stop and think on it. 

Gaeth was fine, bless him. He just carried on like he always had done, fumbling and bumbling and doting on Cornflower – who was as sweet and docile as the milk-beast he’d named her for when they were together, mostly ‘cos she took all her mad metal rage out on everyone else whenever he wasn’t around. It was like she had to channel it somewhere and it came out tenfold ‘cos she spent so much energy keeping it all reined in when she was with her boy. He thought he’d taught her manners, the poor kid. Don’t get me wrong, I liked Gaeth a lot, and not just ‘cos he didn’t do those funny double takes midway through a dirty joke like he’d only just recalled I had breasts. For one thing, Gaeth didn’t tell dirty jokes. 

Balfour didn’t, either, least not any time I was around. I couldn’t imagine he did when I wasn’t, though – for all his supposed steel balls or whatever, he still looked like a rabbit in the run of a horse that’d bolted with the carriage half the time. He was nice enough if you could get him to actually talk other than apologising for existing, but I think he was confused about what other words were ok for a lady who had a dragon and didn’t bother brushing her hair too often. Guess I wasn’t like many ladies he’d ever been acquainted with. 

I wasn’t like any Troius knew either, him being from the same blue roots and all as Balfour. That’s where the similarities ended, though. Balfour was quiet, nervous manners, confusion and agitation over the proper etiquette. Troius was sarcasm and sneering and thinking he was clever ‘cos he’d had better educating and better so-called breeding than anybody else ‘cept Balfour. Troius was an arrogant piece of shitwork, basically, who spoke like he thought he was far cleverer than he actually was, and acted like he had enough money for it not to matter if he wasn’t. Actually, let me take that back: arrogant piece of shitwork’s too fine words for him. Troius was just a dick. 

Luckily for Balfour and handily for the rest of us, Steelhands had a real vendetta against Ironjaw. Maybe it was because they both had metal and body part names, I don’t know. Maybe it was ‘cos Ironjaw was just as rude and stuck-up as Troius. Maybe Steelhands just didn’t like how Troius smarmed up to Balfour and muttered shit about him behind his back. Whatever it was, though, it meant Balfour wasn’t likely to fall for any of his dubious (or more like fucking invisible) charms again, and I know Owen was pretty happy to keep things that way, even if it did mean breaking up dragon fights and people getting their fingers broken. 

Owen. Yeah. Kind-of-Ex-Chief-Sergeant, Very-Ex-Professor Owen Specialpants Adamo, that one. And now there was someone who _really_ didn’t know what to do with a girl in his corps. If anyone pissed me off and made me mad most at the Estate it was Owen fucking Adamo, though let me tell you: it had nothing whatever to do with his being bastion-damned polite or not when we spoke. 

For a so-called man of action, Owen Adamo did precious little _acting_ when it came to me. Which would’ve been fine, if he didn’t make it so fucking obvious that he wanted to. All his talk of strategy drove me insane – what happened to adapting to differences and giving up on lost causes like he’d been on about back at the ‘Versity? Things were different all right, so by his own rules he needed to adapt now. Pretending he didn’t want it was a lost cause, so he needed to drop that shit and re-strategise, stat. He never had got round to taking me for dinner, anyway, and I’d never reminded him ‘cos it didn’t feel like the kind of thing you _could_ remind your Chief Sergeant Who Wasn’t about. 

“Reporting for duty, sir,” I saluted every time I went to tell him something, because he’d told me not to do that but it sure got his attention. 

“I’ve told you not to do that,” he frowned, and I gave him my very best serious face. 

“Don’t want to get court marshalled for insubordination. Sir.” 

“We’re not an army, Laure.” 

“No,” I agreed, “but it’s kind of fun to pretend, sometimes, ‘specially for those of us who’ve _never_ been an army. Not that I think war’s great or anything cracked like that, but. Well.” I shrugged. “It keeps the girls amused, sometimes. Lets them vent, a bit.” 

His frown deepened, like someone was raking his brow over ready for planting. “Are they restless, then? Not getting enough exercise?” 

“Oh, I wouldn’t say that,” I brushed this notion off. “They get plenty of flying, and stuff. It’s more the... well. I guess their minds’re restless, if you catch my meaning.” 

“What, so they’re just bored?”

“So bored they’ll pick fights over which one of ‘em’s got better shaped bolts,” I twisted my mouth to the side and leaned forward like I was confiding something important. “The other day I heard one of them saying something _quite_ unladylike about one of the other’s cogs, if you know what I mean.” 

I’ll give him his dues, he didn’t say anything about girls always mouthing off about other girls or anything like that. Good job too, ‘cos I’d’ve had something to say if he _had_. 

“Maybe we should do more formation flying,” he said, rubbing the stubble on his chin with the palm of his hand. “Give them other things to think about.” 

“Maybe,” I nodded. “Or we could train them to fight and have matches, pit ‘em against each other. They’re all competitive.”

He looked at me like I’d gone loopy, and I remembered that whole part about how we weren’t meant to be training for war or encouraging aggression or whatever other bullshit. They were _dragons_. How were you meant to stop a dragon from being aggressive if it felt like it? Dragons were girls for a good reason, I reckoned: because they got sick of being told what to do and how to behave when they were stronger and braver than most men anyway. Only difference was they had the whole fire and claws thing to back themselves up. 

Wished I’d been a dragon, some days. 

“Hm,” Adamo finally said, narrowing his eyes at me having apparently got over thinking I was crazy just as quickly as he’d started. “I feel like that might encourage them to be even more restless.”

“Like fighting fire with fire, you mean?” I asked. 

“Mm-hm,” he nodded. “I wonder if we could persuade them to get irritable about something else. Something useful, maybe.” 

“Like what?” I frowned. “Thing is, sir,” I added, for good measure, and because he’d got his important strategic business face on and that was fine, except that what I really wanted was to _be_ his important strategic business, and he wasn’t going to realise that if he kept looking at the table. “Thing is, they’re all so stubborn it’s difficult to change their minds on anything.” 

Half his mouth went up then, in a little smile that looked slightly out of place with the rest of his solemn thinking face. “Yes,” he agreed. “That’s really something they should have thought about changing when they built this new corps. Flying a bloody-minded girl into battle when she’s got a different opinion about which way to go is a real pain.” 

“Guess it’s a good job we’re not still at war, then,” I reminded him, this time. 

“Guess so,” he nodded. Then he said “I’ll be thinking about it,” which I knew was my cue to get out of his office and do something practical. I couldn’t tell whether he meant he’d be thinking about how to calm our girls down, or just thinking back about the war, but I guessed it was none of my business, unfortunately. 

That _is_ the trouble with dragons, though: they’re nothing before they’re bastion-damned stubborn. And I live with myself. Inglory was a beauty, probably the finest creature ever crafted, if you ask me. I’m not biased. I’m just honest. She was all over gold except for around her snout, with those little patches of silver like she’d been snuffling up mercury. And she was fierce as fire, took no prisoners and cared for no one but me – or so she said. I’d never forgotten what she said to me that first time we met, _I’ll teach you to outwit pity_. She hadn’t done it yet, but she was always trying. I was kind of hoping maybe one day I’d teach her to understand pity, instead, but so far I’d only got as close as getting her to scornfully tell me she’d no use for human weakness. We argued, sometimes, but it was ok. And one time she’s tried to tell me what I should do with the Chief Sergeant, and I’d told her where to shove it. Pity outwitted or not, she wasn’t going to be the one I took advice from in that quarter. 

~

“Reporting for duty, sir,” I saluted again the next day, because it drove him nuts, and made his frown lines all crease up like old paper. 

“Don’t do that Laure,” he said, turning away from me to stare out his window with his hands behind his back. That got me irritated, turning away like that when you were talking to a person. Made me itch. “How’s Balfour?” 

I blinked. “Balfour?” I checked. “Last I spoke to him he seemed fine. Why?” 

He shrugged one shoulder. “He worries me, sometimes.”

“Then maybe you should ask him how he is himself?” I suggested. Not to be picky. “I mean, he’s got his own voice. I’ve definitely heard him use it, you know, making words and shit. Mostly polite ones, even to Troius, who doesn’t deserve it.” 

“Yes,” Adamo sighed. “That’s the bit that worries me most.” 

The thing about Balfour was he was just so difficult to get a handle on. You thought you knew him, thought you’d just got him sussed as all quiet and polite and a little bit nervous, and then he’d go and say something all sly and cheeky and catch you out, ‘cos you just didn’t expect those words out of that pretty little mouth. 

He’d got a lot better about his hands since we’d come here to the Estate, and I think Steelhands had quite a lot to do with that. I’m sure I overheard ‘em have a conversation one time about how if he thought she was so beautiful and she was crafted from the same stuff as his fingers then why was he hiding them away all the time? I didn’t stop to listen though, I mean I guess he’d have said something or other about it being all to do with social relations and all those expectations and niceties and shit, and I can just _imagine_ what Steelhands would’ve had to say to _that_. All the same though, he was better. Like, he didn’t go flaunting them about exactly, but he didn’t flinch and fret if you caught him with the gloves off. 

One day last week I’d run into him down at the dragon pens and he wasn’t wearing them. He looked wistful, leaning out over a windowsill and watching the grey swatch of cloud that counted for sky round here. “You alright there?” I’d asked him, on my way to chase the miserable streak of not-quite-sunlight while it lasted with my girl. 

“Mm,” he’d said, eloquently, and then it was like he’d caught his manners up in a net after spilling them out all over the floor, and he said “I’m sorry, yes, I’m fine. How are you doing, Laure?” and I had to laugh, really, because I mean, I was great, apart from the Adamo thing, wasn’t I. It was him who was staring at the sky and looking like he’d just swallowed something that tasted like unhappiness. 

“Whatcha thinking about?” I asked, taking a chance on it and crossing over to the window. I hoped the answer was neither Troius nor 'my next letter to Thom', because damn, but the poor guy needed to steel punch the first and just fucking tell the other one. 

I leaned my arms down next to his, elbows on the window ledge, and breathed in freedom. That was the thing about the countryside which I hadn’t realised until I got back out from the city again. There was all this _space_ , out here. The city was cramped and squashed and built up all in layers so you slid around on top of each other and were always squeezing in between other people’s elbows and rooftops, and I guess that’s why there’s so many rules and regulations; how else would anything stay under control in such a tight place. And there were so many things to fall over, from cobble stones to fashion fuck ups, and I fell over every one of them and found there wasn’t any space to land my arse on. I still tripped over stuff in the country, but firstly no one much cared, and secondly at least I didn’t land in someone’s unfortunate lap. 

I wasn’t really expecting Balfour to say much, when out it came from nowhere, all wispy and quiet like the edges of the river, and he said “I was just remembering flying, that’s all.” 

“Yeah?” I stared at the sky too, then, and tried to imagine it. “What was it like?” 

“Oh,” he said, and looked at me with this great wave of sadness over his face. It wasn’t pity, mind you, ‘cos I would’ve called him out on that. It was just sadness, gentle and genuine, like it made his stomach hurt that I’d never know this feeling he was thinking on. “I forget, sometimes,” he told me, “I’m sorry. I just... I forget that we didn’t all... well. Because we’re all here, you see?” 

“Yeah, I see,” I scrunched up my nose. “Because we’re here with our dragons, you forget sometimes we weren’t always _there_ with _your_ dragons, before, going up over the mountains and whatever. Boss forgets that sometimes, too,” I told him. Then, I bumped his shoulder with mine. “But what was it _like_?” 

“You want what I miss, don’t you?” he asked me, and he sounded almost... well. _Fond_. His fingers clicked and whirred, magic and mechanics humming together. 

I shrugged. “I just always thought it’d be like...” I stared up at those dismal clouds, the wet weave of them smudging with the ripple of trees on the horizon, like someone had painted our world in watercolour. “I don’t know. Just... always thought it must be the best feeling in the world, I suppose.” 

Balfour looked back out across the grounds, too. “It was,” he agreed. 

~ 

“Reporting for duty, sir,” I saluted the next day, because Raphael was right, his face was a fucking picture when you really wound him up and he knew you were doing it. 

“Laure,” he said, and this time he looked right at me and I wished I could’ve recreated it for Raphael. I bit my lip instead. He didn’t tell me not to salute this time, either, so maybe I was actually in a scrape for once. I’d almost been missing getting told off, what with Toverre not being around to fret over my hair and my boots and the fact I’d started wearing trousers. “I hear you’ve been causing, er... trouble with security?” 

“Trouble,” I blinked my eyes wide. “With security? Sir?” 

He rubbed at his temples like I was giving him a headache. I hoped I was. I hoped I was giving him a headache from being fucking hungry waiting for that dinner he’d never taken me out for. 

“They can’t do a great deal of good keeping the place secure, Laure, if you get them so drunk they’re still as comatose as th’Esar halfway through the next morning.”

I had to move the pressure from my teeth to the inside of my cheek at that. Don’t know if I felt worse for Ghislain or for Raphael, to be honest. On the one hand, Ghislain was big enough he should’ve been able to take it. On the other, Raphael’d already been trying to cheat him with the old extra-large wine glass refill before I’d even joined in, so maybe he’d deserved it more. 

“I don’t know what you mean, sir,” I pretended. “We were just playing a friendly game of cards.” 

Our security guards hadn’t just been playing cards the night before, they’d been playin’ them _wrong_. If there was one thing my Da’d taught me well, it was how to play a good hand of cards – and how to play a bad one so well nobody knew it was bad until you’d conned ‘em out of something better. 

He also taught me how to drink anyone under the table without them noticing you’d actually only had two glasses of wine, even if it was the strong Ke’Han stuff. 

I’d got the boys talking about their old dragons while we played as well, which had worked out well for me as it seemed like nothing else distracted them so well as reminiscing. Guess that’s true for most folk, but I swear Raphael was worse than anyone I’d ever met for nostalgia. I asked him about his girl, and his eyes went all dreamy and he went off on one about stars and beauty and dreams in the wind. That was around when Ghislain knocked his massive shoulder into mine and nearly knocked me over altogether, though I don’t think he meant to, and gave me a look that said _that one, right there, what a turnip_ and I nearly ruined everything by laughing out loud. 

And then I’d asked Ghislain as well, when Raphael’d stopped rhapsodising, and he screwed his face up sideways and looked at his cards when he rumbled out something about never knowing anything else like her, and that’s when I realised the both of them were the same, playing cards so they weren’t stuck thinking about what was gone; drinking so if they got upset they could blame the wine. And I thought, well, that’s no way to live though, is it? Sure, they missed their old girls and their old friends, and sometimes I wasn’t really sure that being up here at the Estate with us was best for them, not with so many memories to try and write over, and so many reminders everywhere – our new girls, and the smell of dragon fire that lingered everywhere, in every hallway, and Adamo shouting orders when he got it in mind to, and Balfour’s hands, and – well, everything. As our time had gone on out here, they’d got more and more morose, and sometimes I had to really think hard to remember how they’d been when I’d first met them in the room above the Yesfir hat shop, all larger than life – literally in Ghislain’s case – and full of their adventures and all raring to go and have another one, even if they tried to pretend like they weren’t. Didn’t seem like there was so much of that spirit and energy left in the last couple of months, like it had all simmered down to a quiet little nothing, disappeared with the smoke of those last explosions. 

So I said, picking up the cards and shuffling them fresh, cutting them and shuffling again ‘cos it was time for a new game, I said “actually, I don’t want to know how beautiful either of them was, ‘cos I’m not gonna lie to you boys, I doubt either of them could’ve been as perfect as Inglory. What I want to know,” I told them, cutting and shuffling a third time before doling out. The cards slapped cheerfully against the table. “What I want to know is what it was like having them all around, all fourteen of ‘em, all causing chaos. Did they bicker?” 

The men tossed each other a glance and picked up their cards in unison. “You still talking about the dragons,” Ghislain rumbled, “or’ve you moved on to the boys?” 

Well, there was a topic to distract them properly. Don’t know why I hadn’t thought about that one sooner. Ask them about their dragons and they got all misty eyed and miserable. Ask them about their old comrades and they were full of implausibly horrible-sounding pranks that would’ve had Toverre squealing just to _hear_ about how unhygienic some of ‘em sounded, banter I couldn’t follow between the two of them so bastion knows what it must’ve been like with fourteen, and a hundred different sentences that all started out with 'do you remember'. So if they lost three games in a row to little old me while they were yapping about Merritt’s freckles and Jeannot’s sex eyebrow, whether anyone ever actually won at darts without cheating, and whoever the fuck Madeline was, well. It was their own faults, wasn’t it? 

Except then Ghislain mentioned the piano around another slug of wine and Raphael’s face went pale like a sea mist rolling in sly and fast, and I topped his glass up quick. He knocked it back all in one and picked the cards back up, his hand shaky, and he passed them over to me. “Cut,” he said, sharp like a bitter apple, and then looked at Ghislain and said “do you remember that time Magoughin punched that pimp?” 

I won another game while they recalled that story and the one about Evariste eating half a tray of brownies before it turned out they’d been spiked with that dopey grass that grows out in the Kirils, and he’d spent the next four hours lying on the floor sobering up and jabbering on about constellations on someone’s nipples or something. That was when Ghislain squinted at me and demanded how exactly I was beating them so good, and I raised one shoulder and looked innocent. He got us a fresh bottle of wine, and told me my luck was about to run out, and I asked him about Rook, since he was the only former Airman I hadn’t met at all, and then I won two more games and Raphael realised he couldn’t stand up. Ghislain half carried him to bed, and half an hour later Balfour asked me if I knew why Ghislain was asleep across the threshold of Raphael’s doorway, slumped and snoring with only one boot on. 

“No idea,” I grinned, tucking my hand through his elbow because Troius was coming down the hallway towards us. “Say, how about you tell me more about that book you were reading the other week?” I didn’t give a rat’s arse about whatever treatise Thom had posted to Balfour from wherever he was at – I only knew who Thom even was because Balfour wrote him letters all the damned time – but if it meant Troius was left kicking his heels with nobody to hang around with for a few more hours, I was happy. 

“If you’re going to half destroy someone another time,” Adamo made me promise when he called me in the next morning to question me about his old boys’ hangovers, “just make sure it’s someone who isn’t meant to be useful.” 

I still don’t know if it was what he’d intended, but I took that and ran with it. 

~

“Reporting for duty,” I saluted the very next morning, and almost forgot to add “sir” because this news was gold and I really hoped he hadn’t already heard. “About your advice last time,” I blundered on before he could tell me not to call him that. “I think I destroyed someone useless.” 

In case you were wondering, I was talking about Troius. 

And he wasn’t _destroyed_ , I didn’t actually _destroy_ him, I just... well. Made sure he knew he was still being a piece of shit and no one liked him. In case he’d gone forgetting just ‘cos we didn’t keep him tied up the whole time, and ‘cos Balfour was still too nice to tell him where to shove it most days. So I just let him know, as it were. With my boot. 

It wasn’t like I wasn’t used to telling idiots exactly what they could do with their prejudices and bullshit. Firstly, I’m a girl. Secondly, I was previously engaged to Toverre. And alright, maybe I wasn’t exactly accustomed to telling the fancy-pants crowd to piss off on the regular, but the way I saw it – there wasn’t any fancy-pants out here at the Estate. We were all the same now, meaning his fine lord Troius couldn’t make any claims to be better than the rest of us. Also, I only kicked him a little bit. Wasn’t my fault the stairs were right there. 

“If you’re referring to the man with the shattered kneecap, I’m not sure we were singing from quite the same hymn sheet,” Adamo told me quietly with his eyes still on whatever diagram he was tapping his pencil against. “Although,” he added, looking up right when I opened my mouth to tell him he should be more specific then, in future. He narrowed his eyes and shifted the pencil in his fingers, tapped it against his chin now and looked all thoughtful, like he was having Big Ideas and thinking about sharing them. “We were definitely referring to the same book.” 

“So,” it was my turn to frown. “Did you want me to kick Troius’s arse or not?” 

“Depends why you did it.” 

I thought about that for a minute. I did it because he was an arrogant prick and he deserved it. I did it because he was _supposed_ to be getting better and being less of a shit now we were out here, leastways that’s what the Lady Antoinette had told me last time she was here. That was their hope for him, or some shit. Some days I wished they had just let him go mad or locked him up or something. And I did it because I got sick of the way he was with Balfour, like ‘cos they’d been friends once Balfour was gonna just forget the rest of the shit that was Troius and pretend it never happened. I liked Balfour. It rubbed me the wrong way watching how he was just too polite to tell Troius to fuck off. Maybe my girl was right, maybe she had shown me a thing or two about pity. I mean I’d probably still call her off Ironjaw if they were really fighting, but I wouldn’t be encouraging her to lay off _him_ if she took that into her head. I’d probably be joining in. “I don’t like how he treats people,” I went for in the end. “I guess that’s why.”

Adamo’s jaw went tight and so did my stomach, like when he clenched his teeth up like that it made my belly tie itself in knots. “Did he say something to you?” he asked, and his voice was bitter and furious, wind off the lake in the middle of winter, cold right down in your bones. 

I had to think about that, too, but honestly? Troius never said anything to me I hadn’t heard any other place. There’d be comments about me being a woman and all, or _not_ being a woman, more like, not a ‘real’ one. Never did get around to asking him what the fuck he meant by that. Most days I couldn’t be bothered. I did my thing and he did his, and neither of us liked each other, and if that’d been all it was then I wouldn’t’ve needed to boot him down the stairs. No, it was the things he said to other people, every time. So “no,” I had to shake my head, “no, he doesn’t say shit to me. Doesn’t mean I’m alright with him saying shit to my friends, though.” 

Adamo nodded, but his face was still tight and angry. “You let me know if he ever does,” he said, and sent me off. I took myself down to the dragon pens to polish my girl for a bit. Felt strange, leaving his office that day. Like I was in a mess except I wasn’t. Like he’d wanted to say something else but didn’t have the words. I don’t know. Sat funny in my gut though, that one. Kind of took the edge off the triumph of taking Troius down a couple of pegs – or, well, steps, to be more accurate. 

I could’ve sat and analysed it and worried and thought too much, tried to figure it all out like some mystery in a soppy old roman. Toverre would have done. Instead, I worked up a sweat shining up Inglory ‘til she was all over silver mirrors and beauty, and then I had myself a hot bath and went to ask Ghislain and Raphael if they fancied getting trounced at cards again. Didn’t think they’d be up for it, two seasoned veterans like they were supposed to be. I was wrong. 

~ 

“Reporting for duty, sir,” I saluted a few days, because it was habit now, and if the only way I was going to get any kind of real reaction from him was like this or by beating bastards up then it was gonna be saluting ‘cos that was way easier on the knuckles. 

Except that was the day he took hold of my wrist when my fingers were still tapped mockingly against my temple, brought my arm back down gentle as if he was holding a baby, and said “Laure, for bastion’s sake, _stop it_. You’re not my soldier.”

“What am I, then?” I needed to know, especially now he was all up in my face. 

He shook his head, and didn’t answer me directly, or at all, really, ‘cos what he said was “will you have dinner with me?” 

I swallowed, and tasted fire and metal and potential. “Yes,” I said, only it got a bit stuck in my throat with all that grit, and so I rounded it off with “sir,” for good measure. Maybe I wasn’t his soldier, but I still liked the look it put on his face and the noise in the back of his throat. Then again, maybe there were other ways of getting those things to happen. 

Maybe I’d find out after dinner.


End file.
